Sunshine Superman
by BlackCapricornDay
Summary: What if Superman was a 1960s flower child?
1. Prologue: Eve of Destruction

**Hey all! Back with another groovy story. This one is a psychedelic alternate universe tale of Superman and numerous other DC characters (none of which I own, of course). This first section is very brief – it's the prologue, and the first real chapter will be coming soon, but I thought I'd post it as a preview of what is to come (and, more importantly, to motivate myself to actually write it!). Enjoy!**

**I decided to give this an M rating since the story will contain violence, sexuality, drug use, profanity, and possibly blasphemy.**

**Sunshine Superman**

**Prologue: Eve of Destruction**

**Metropolis, USA**

**2001**

The city is burning.

I stand in awed silence, staring at the sky, watching smoke billow from the broken towers. All around me, there is pandemonium. People scream, people run, people fall to their knees and cry as their world comes down around them like a house of cards. But I can do nothing but stand, my heart beating, and marvel at the terrible destruction wrought before my eyes.

"It's the end of the world," I whisper. "It's Judgment Day."

"Nah, man, I don't believe that shit." The voice is little more than a harsh whisper, but it is somehow clear above the chaos surrounding me. "Ain't no judgment day. Not here in America. Ain't no armies of angels, ain't no devils from hell. We got all the devils we need right here."

I turn. The speaker is crouched at the street corner beside me, and I know him. His clothes are ragged and tattered, and his skin is weathered, the colour of rich soil. I recognize his long grey dreadlocks, his unkempt beard, the old, battered guitar he holds. I see him every day on this corner, once on my way to work and once on my way back, but I have never spoken to him.

"Ain't no shinin' city gon' descend from on high either," he continues. "Not here in America. The shinin' city, we livin' in it, and it ain't all that pretty up close."

He shuffles to one side, as if to make a space for me to sit next to him. Feeling as if I am sleepwalking, I crouch next to him, leaning against the corner of the building. The old man rummages through his pocket and pulls out a half-burnt spliff and a lighter.

"Partake of the herb with me?" he asks. I stare blankly. I smoked marijuana only once, when I was in college, and swore that I would never do it again. But I look at the smoke-filled sky and watch the flow of screaming, panicking Metropolitans, and realize that my world has changed in a fundamental way. "What the hell," I say, sitting cross-legged.

He lights the spliff and takes a draw, letting the sweet-smelling smoke out slowly. "Here in America, we got our own gods."

"Yeah. George Washington. Benjamin Franklin. Lincoln." I take a draw, and the warm smoke fills my lungs. There is dust and smoke in the air, and I realize I am breathing the residue of the attack. I begin to cough violently.

"And Superman," the street person says, taking the spliff.

I hold my breath, regaining my composure. "Superman. Yeah. Wish he was here now."

"He's coming back." The man takes another draw.

"Yeah, so the tabloids tell us." I grin. "He's off with Elvis right now."

The man turns to me, and there is a burning intensity in his eyes. "Nah, man. He's coming back. He told me himself."

I stare at him for a moment, then laugh nervously. _Is he joking? _I wonder. _Is he trying to make me think he's some crazy hobo who thinks he talks to Superman? _I cough once more. _Maybe he actually is?_

"He said there'd be signs," the man continues, his attention focused once more on the spliff. "Trials and tribulations. He said there'd be troubles, but we should fear not, 'cos it's all signs of the New Revolution."

"Yeah?" is all I can manage. He hands me the spliff, and I take another draw.

"Damn straight." He extends his hand to me, and I shake it. "Name's Jimmy, by the way," he says. "Jimmy Olsen."

I drop the spliff and my eyes widen. "No shit."

He smiles, revealing yellow, crooked teeth. Somehow, I know he is telling the truth.

"You were there," I gasp. "You knew him. Tell me about it!"

Idly, he strums his guitar, and the dissonance of the strings provides accompaniment to the sounds of pandemonium in Metropolis. Jimmy and I are an island of calm in a sea of panic and chaos. I turn my gaze to the sky once more, searching through the smoke as if I might see him there, up in the sky.


	2. Time of the Season, part 1

**Sunshine Superman**

**I: Time of the Season, part 1**

**Smallville, USA**

**1947**

"Look! Up in the sky!"

Jonathan stops drying the pan for a moment and peers out the window. His eyes widen. "My God," he says softly.

Idly scrubbing a plate in the sink, Martha watches the bright, fast-moving light as it plunges through the clear night sky towards them. She feels Jonathan's firm grip on her arm then. "Get down!" he says urgently.

They crouch behind the kitchen counter, and Martha listens as a high-pitched whistling sound grows louder and louder. Her heart races, and she takes Jonathan's hand, squeezes it tightly, and closes her eyes.

The windows are shattered by a deafening boom, and Martha's ears pop. She can hear nothing for a few moments, and then becomes aware of the cacophonous sound of their panicking animals.

She turns to Jonathan, who is clutching his knees, staring wide-eyed into space. Gently, she touches his face, whispering, "Jonathan. We're alive."

He says nothing, and she knows his mind is in another place. Moving closer, she asks, "D'ya think it was a plane? Should we see if anyone's hurt?"

He blinks several times, then turns to her, and she knows that he is back. "Yeah. Yes. We should take a look."

And he stands, extending a strong, calloused hand to help her up. She glances out the window. There is something in the field; in the darkness, she can only see the small fires, but there is something there, something large.

"Y'know," Jonathan says as he dons his coat, "for a minute there, I was… well, I thought that maybe it was a bomb. That it was the Russians or something."

Peering out the window once more, Martha replies, "It don't look like a bomb. I reckon it's a plane."

She puts her coat and scarf on, and Jonathan reaches onto a shelf and finds their flashlight, flicking it on and off to test its battery. Then they walk out into the crisp winter night. The stars shine brightly overhead, and the new snow crunches beneath their boots as they approach the wreck.

The animals have calmed somewhat, and the fires surrounding the wreck are beginning to die. Jonathan's light reveals a charred, blackened object surrounded by bits of debris. It has created a sizeable crater, perhaps ten yards across, in their field.

"Looks too small to be a plane," Jonathan observes. "Maybe it's a rocket of some kind?"

Martha bends down and picks up a piece of debris. It is light in her hands, and malleable. Brushing away at the ash coating the fragment, she notices that there is writing on one edge. It is glowing, giving off a very faint purple light.

"Jonathan, look! There's writing here."

He examines it closely. "That ain't no writing I ever seen. Looks almost Egyptian!"

Turning their attention back to the wreck, they climb gingerly into the shallow crater. Jonathan approaches the object slowly.

"Careful!" Martha cautions him, following at a distance.

Jonathan walks around to the far side of the wreckage, examining it intently. He calls to her, "I think there's an engine over here! It was definitely a rocket, but different from anything I've ever seen." He walks back around the wreck, standing close to Martha.

"Jonathan," she asks, "could this be one of them flying saucers people keep talking about?"

"I don't know," he replies. "I mean, it certainly don't look like a saucer, but it sure don't look like anything from this world either!"

As he is speaking, the beam from his flashlight glints off of a reflective surface in the wreckage. Instinctively, Martha moves closer, brushing away the ash. She notices a loose panel on what appears to be the outer hull of the craft, with the shiny object protruding from underneath. She takes the edge of the panel and pulls, and it breaks off in her hands, revealing a smooth, blue-grey object within. Martha estimates that it is two feet long, a foot deep, and perhaps eighteen inches wide. A thick cable on one end extends into the wreckage, and a purple symbol glows at the opposite end.

"What's that?" Jonathan asks, moving closer and shining his light on the thing. Martha shakes her head and runs her fingers across the smooth surface, bringing them to rest on the purple symbol.

Suddenly, the object begins to hum, and Martha jumps backwards with a gasp. Jonathan places his arms around her, as if he could shield her from the unknowable forces within the wreckage. But she holds him tight, and they watch as a hole opens in the smooth surface of the object and begins to widen slowly, like a strange, sideways mouth. A bright white light shines on them from within. They stand, awestruck and silent, watching the marvellous, terrifying process happening before their eyes.

Then, after a moment, the light fades, and Martha sees that the top of the object is gone. The spots fade from her vision, and she blinks rapidly, wondering if what her eyes tell her can possibly be true.

There is an infant inside.

It is a boy, Martha observes, with short, bristly black hair and skin the colour of caramel. The boy is small enough to be a newborn, but he is calm and still. Yet his dark eyes are active, darting about and observing his surroundings. Then they come to rest on Martha, and she stares into them, moving forward slowly.

"Careful, Martha!" Jonathan whispers. "That could be some kind of Martian!"

"He's just a baby," she replies. The infant stretches his arms towards her, and she lifts him into her arms, wrapping him in her scarf. "See? We should get him inside before he catches cold."

Glancing once more at the wreckage, Jonathan says, "Okay. But we have to be careful – we don't know what we're dealing with. He could come from another world!"

Martha does not reply, instead cooing softly to the baby. "Look, Jonathan," she says softly. "He has your nose!"

"That's impossible! The baby is…" But he trails off as he gazes at the infant, who stares at him enigmatically and extends a tiny hand.

The stars shine silently as the young couple and their tiny newcomer return to the farmhouse.

* * *

Three hours later, there is a knock at the door.

Jonathan has been busying himself replacing the windows as Martha feeds milk to the baby. He has been fascinated by the little Martian – he seems like a human baby in every way, except that he never cries. And Martha had been right about the resemblance, too. With his bristly black hair and wide nose, the little guy is the spitting image of Martha, with hints of Jonathan's own family as well. He wonders whether the Martian technology somehow made the baby look like them.

_If the Martians wanted him to blend, they coulda picked a better couple_, he thinks wryly. _Being a mixed-race kid in Kansas ain't exactly a way to keep a low profile._

The knock comes again. He had seen the headlights in the distance, and after investigating the crash, he was not surprised at having late-night visitors from the government. He looks at Martha, and she smiles reassuringly.

He opens the door and sees a stern-looking man in a brown fedora hat and trench coat. His face is lined, and seems to be permanently etched in a scowl.

"Lionel Luthor," he says, holding a badge. "FBI."

Two men stand behind him, and Jonathan can see the weapons concealed under their trench coats. Smiling, he says to Luthor, "What can I do for you?"

"Sir," Luthor says, using the word as disdainfully as Jonathan has ever heard, "as you may be aware, an unidentified object landed on these premises at twenty-one hours and seventeen. We are here on the orders of President Truman to conduct an investigation. Be informed that we will be making use of your property until further notice."

"You go right ahead," Jonathan tells him cheerfully. "Stay as long as you need. You know, I've been mighty curious about that myself. Do you think it might be from Mars?"

"We have not begun our investigation, and I do not care to speculate," Luthor responds sternly. "Have you or anyone in your household been to the crash site?"

Luthor's glare reminds Jonathan of his old drill sergeant, and he can tell that the agent is a man who is accustomed to getting his way through intimidation and bluster. Without breaking his gaze, Jonathan replies, "Sure have. The wife and I took a look at it just after it landed. Couldn't really make heads or tails of it, though."

One of the other men scribbles something into a notebook. Luthor continues, "As this is a matter of national security, the object and any and all items within and without are property of the government of the United States. If you removed anything from the crash site, please turn it in to us now."  
In his mind's eye, Jonathan can see the little Martian baby lying on a table under a bright white light, with scientists all around, poking and prodding and taking measurements. His throat dry, he says, "Nope, we didn't touch nothing. Thought it might be radioactive or somethin'."

The man with the notebook continues to scribble, and Luthor narrows his eyes, as if trying to read Jonathan. "A prudent decision on your part," he finally says. "Please remain on the premises until further notice, as we may require your assistance."

"Sure thing," Jonathan smiles. "Just come back if y'all need anything."

"Your co-operation is appreciated," Luthor says humourlessly, and he turns to the other men. After a moment of discussion in hushed voices, they set off towards the crash.

Jonathan closes the door, then reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out two cigarettes. He hears Martha's footsteps as he lights them, and hands one to her.

"Thanks," she says nervously, taking a drag. "You didn't tell him."

"I couldn't. Couldn't stand to think what they'd do to him if they got their hands on him. The kid would be like a frog for them to dissect!"

The baby in Martha's arms regards Jonathan curiously. _Does he understand what I'm saying? _he wonders. In spite of himself, he coos to the child, "Ya hear that? Ain't no scientist types gonna get their hands on daddy's little Martian!"

"But what are we gonna do when they figure it out?" Martha asks. "They'll see that we took something from the space ship, and it ain't gon' be long before they figure out it's the baby. We ain't got no baby bottles, no toys, no crib!"

"We'll figure something out," he reassures her, taking her in his arms and holding her tight.

"You got no ideas at all, do you?" she smiles.

"Nope."

They embrace for a long time, the baby nestled between them with an expression of contentment.

"Jonathan?" Martha whispers.

"Yeah?"

"You said 'Daddy's little Martian.'"

"Did I?" He smiles. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"You know, I can't help thinking… I mean, seein' as how we been wanting a kid for so long…" She pauses, stroking the baby's hair. "Maybe we oughta give him a name. Just in case them snoops ask about him."

They stand in silence for a moment, deep in thought.

"What about Clark?" Jonathan suggests. "Since it's your maiden name and all."

"Clark," she whispers, gazing at the infant. "Clark Kent." She looks up. "I think he likes it."

"Then it's settled. If anyone asks, he's Clark Kent, our baby boy."

"Our baby boy," Martha repeats.

The baby's eyes dart between the two of them once more, and he smiles a toothless grin. There is a deep understanding in his eyes, Jonathan thinks, and he wonders idly what otherworldly sights those little eyes might have seen.

* * *

Little Clark sleeps peacefully in Martha's arms.

He had seemed anxious, and she began to suspect that he was hungry. With no alternatives on hand, Martha fed him milk from the bottle they used to feed the goat kids. Clark had taken to this without fuss, and had fallen asleep shortly after drinking his fill.

It is nearly two in the morning, and Jonathan is asleep on the couch. _That man can sleep through anything, _Martha marvels. _Maybe it's something he learned from his army days?_

For her part, Martha has been completely unable to sleep. At least eight times now she has gone to the window to peer out into the night and observe the FBI as they examine the crash. So far, they have not disturbed the Kents, but she knows that it is only a matter of time before they realize something is missing from the wreckage.

They will need to escape soon; of that she is certain. After contemplating various plans, she decided that the best course of action would be to gather up some basic necessities for survival – as much as they can carry – and to slip quietly out the back door and hike the two miles into town. Upon arriving, she would find someone who would give them a place to hide until the FBI become convinced that they have left, then return to the farm, load up the truck, and escape to Canada.

"I hope you don't mind the cold," she whispers to Clark.

Another knock at the door.

She knew this would come, and she takes a deep breath, steeling herself. With Clark in her arms, she walks to the door and opens it.

"Yes?" she greets the FBI agents.

Agent Luthor stares blankly at her for a moment. Then, "I'd like to speak with your husband."

This does not surprise her either. "He's asleep. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Well, miss," Luthor scowls, "you and your husband might be in a lot of trouble, and I think it would be best if I talked to him. Why don't you just go get him for me?"

_Condescending ass_, she thinks to herself. Refusing to be baited, she replies, "Why don't you tell me first what the trouble is? Then maybe we can discuss this all together like civilized folks?"

Martha hears one of the agents mutter a racial slur under his breath. Luthor glances back at him, then turns to Martha. "Alright, then, it's like this: something's missing from the crash, and we think you or your husband might have taken it. So we're going to take a look around and ask you a few questions, that's all."

"You got a warrant for that?" She stares at him unflinchingly.

"Miss, I don't think you know who you're dealing with here."

"Oh, I think I do," she retorts. "Bunch of feds who think they're above the law. If you come in here and search my home, you'll be hearing from my lawyer. And I'm takin' it to the press. I don't think J. Edgar Hoover will be too happy when his top-secret UFO crash is all over the papers."

"What's going on here?" Jonathan asks, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Sir," Luthor addresses Jonathan, "I believe your wife is attempting to threaten us."

He turns to Martha. "What do they want?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but Luthor interrupts, "Just to ask you a few questions."

"They think we stole something from the crash," Martha informs Jonathan.

"I didn't say that," Luthor counters. "I'm just asking you to come with us so we can discuss a few things. That's all."

"You don't have to do that," Martha says to Jonathan, keeping her eyes on Luthor.

"I think this one knows something," one of the other agents offers. "Maybe we should take both of them."

"Y'all don't have to do that," Jonathan says. "We ain't got nothin' to hide. I'm sure this is all a misunderstanding. Just let me get some respectable clothes on and I'll meet up with ya."

"Very well," Luthor nods to Jonathan. "We appreciate your co-operation." And with one last poisonous glance at Martha, the agents leave.

Martha shuts the door. "Damn it, Jonathan, why you gotta go with them? Heaven only knows what them snakes gon' do to you."

"It's gonna be okay," he reassures her. "If we co-operate with 'em, we'll seem less suspicious."

"If we co-operate with them, they gon' take our baby," Martha glowers.

Jonathan stares at her for a moment, saying nothing. Then he blinks, and says, "You're right. But don't worry. I ain't gonna tell 'em nothing about the baby. I'll be back soon, y'hear?"

Her throat tight, Martha embraces Jonathan and whispers, "Alright. But as soon as you get back, we're getting out of here. We'll go far away, where they're never gonna find us."

"Well, you better get packing, 'cause I'm gonna be back before you know it." Jonathan grins that lopsided grin of his, and Martha cannot help but smile as well. Then he leans in, and they share a warm, gentle kiss.

Martha says nothing as Jonathan changes into his clothes from the day before, dons his coat, and, with one last glance backwards, steps outside to meet the FBI agents.

_Damn fool_, she thinks to herself, feeling a type of dread she has not felt since the day Jonathan boarded that ship heading out to Guadalcanal. She loved Jonathan, but he was infuriating sometimes.

"Your pa's the bravest man you'll ever meet," Martha whispers to the still-sleeping Clark as she paces around the house, "but he's a gentle soul, and can get hurt bad by the trials and tribulations of life. And he ain't always the smartest man, neither. If he'd of let them take me with them, at least we'd be together and maybe we could get away. But as long as they keep us apart, we can't do nothin'. He don't realize that, and he thinks he's protecting me. Typical man."

She strokes the infant's face. "You ain't gonna be like other men, though. I can tell it right now. I know you been put here for a reason."

She pauses in front of a window, staring out into the winter's night, to the yellow reflection on the clouds of the lights of Smallville. "You see, you been sent to a world of sorrow and sadness. There's so much trouble here – we got wars, diseases, poverty, we got atomic bombs, we got concentration camps, we got laws that keep my people as strangers in our own land… we got a whole lotta trouble. But I know that wherever you come from, it's gotta be a better place. It can't be worse than this. And maybe," she blinks back tears, "maybe you gonna show us how it can be better here, too."

She stands in silence, staring into the night, until her reverie is interrupted by a tap on the back door.

Taking a deep breath, she walks to the back door and opens it. She breathes a deep sigh of relief upon seeing the familiar face of Police Chief Doug Parker.

"Howdy," the officer says. "Mind if I come in?"

"Of course," she replies, closing the door behind him.

"You know, I was just coming in from town, and…" He stares at Clark, noticing him for the first time. "Good golly! Who's this youngster? Don't tell me he's yours and Jonny's? I had no idea you were…"

"It's a long story," she tells him, "but I'll explain. Do you want any tea, Doug?"

"Yes, please," he says. "Been a long night."

Doug removes his boots and jacket, and Martha walks to the kitchen and puts a kettle of water on the stove. Doug takes a seat at the kitchen table, saying, "I reckon you and Jonny been having yourselves one peculiar night."

"You can say that again," Martha smiles, taking a seat across from the older man. "You saw the crash?"

"I didn't see it myself," he answers, "but I heard a booming sound in the distance. It's been the talk of the town, though, and I been getting asked about it all night. I woulda got here sooner, but young Larry Lang and some of his teen-age friends got into the moonshine and been up to some shenanigans. And let me tell you, Louie was some unhappy when he found out they took his car! That's how it is with youngsters these days, though. They got no discipline, no respect!"

"M-hm," Martha agrees, getting up to pour the tea.

"But anyways, as I'm getting them to their homes, I keep getting told about a funny light in the sky that landed out near the Kent family farm. So I says I'm going to drive out there first chance I get so's I can investigate, and also to make sure you and Jonny were okay." He looks around. "Where is Jonny, anyway?" Then he frowns. "No, don't tell me. It was them federal types, wasn't it? They took him away?"

She nods grimly, handing him a cup of tea.

He shakes his head. "I knew they were gonna be trouble. You know, I came here for the first time a couple of hours ago, but they turned me away! Said nobody was allowed on or off the farm. So I'm on my way back into town then, when I says to myself, 'Ain't no laws against me visiting my community members! Gotta make sure they're okay, you know!' So I turns around and comes right back, and then I see a truck heading off towards the freeway. Probably heading to the air base, if you ask me. And I says to myself, 'I sure hope they ain't takin' Jonny and Martha there for no questions.'"

"They took Jonathan," she tells him. "Didn't take me, though. Probably didn't want to waste their time questioning a country Negro woman."

"Well, there ya go," said Doug, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Y'know, my pa always told me, he said, 'Son, I met lotsa people in this world, and I've come to learn that there ain't no difference between white folks and Negroes. And, my boy,' he would say, 'don't ever forget what the Constitution says, that all men are created equal.' And my old man, he was a piano player, and he loved that Negro music. Jelly Roll Morton, Willie the Lion, all of them. And Satchmo, of course. Me, I'm a swing fanatic, myself. I'll never forget the time the wife and me went to see the Basie band in Topeka before the war. Did I ever tell you about that?"

"Yes," she nodded. Many times, in fact – every time the topic of race came up in conversation, Doug would quote his father and then proclaim his love of swing music at length. "Must have been quite a show."

"Oh, boy, I'm telling you!" Doug grins, sipping his tea. "But ya know, they say the big band is dead," he sighs. "Sometimes I don't know what type of world we're living in anymore."

"Me neither," she agrees. They sip their tea in silence for a moment.

"But, you know, it is good that they left you here, in a way," Doug says, "So's someone can look after the youngster and all. Who, I might add, you still haven't introduced me to!"

Martha glances back and forth, then says in a hushed voice, "Okay, but I'm telling you this because I trust you, and you gotta promise to keep this a secret from the feds, and anyone who might talk, got it?"

"For sure," Doug replies.

She whispers, "Jonathan and I found him in the spaceship. We think he might be a Martian. But we can't tell anyone, 'cause otherwise they're gonna take him to a laboratory."

Doug is stunned. "You ain't joking, are ya? Pulling old Jimmy's leg?"

She shakes her head.

"Whoo-ee. That's a secret if I ever heard one. I s'pose you realize the amount of laws you're breakin' here."

She smiles. "Yeah, I've been thinkin' about that."

"Well, I ain't gonna tell no one. Y'know, if it was me, I don't know if I could give the young'un up to the feds like that either. But then, I'd be scared. You done a brave thing."

"Thank you," she says. "Now, they don't know the baby ain't ours. So we're telling 'em his name is Clark, and he's our baby. So you gotta tell people that. Tell 'em the truth only if you trust 'em."

"Yes ma'am," Doug grins. "You're secret's safe with me. And, if I may say so, you can count on Smallville. We ain't gonna turn our newest citizen over for dissection, no sir! So if there's anything ya need, anything at all, you come to me, you got it?"

"Thank you," she says. "I'm gonna try to get into town tomorrow, if they'll let me, and I'll talk to you then. I got a plan to get out of here, but I need Jonathan here first."

"Gotcha." He sets his teacup on the table and stands. "I'd best be getting on before the wife gets worried. But you remember what I said. Take care, now."

"Take care," she says. Doug peers through the window as he puts his shoes on, then exits quietly through the back door into the night.

The teacups sit on the table, and her instinct is to wash them, but her eyelids droop, and for the first time she notices her exhaustion.

"What do you think?" she asks Clark. "Should Ma try to get some sleep?"

Clark is silent, his eyes partially open. In a few moments, he is asleep again, with his mother sleeping restlessly beside him.


	3. Time of the Season, part 2

**Sunshine Superman**

**I: Time of the Season, part 2**

**USAF Military Base**

**Near Smallville, USA**

**1947**

"Corporal Jonathan Kent. Born March 19th, 1918, Smallville, Kansas. Enlisted in the United States Armed Forces in 1941. Received the Medal of Honor for bravery above and beyond the call of duty at Guadalcanal. Received honorable discharge on August 11th, 1945, and taken to Metropolis Psychiatric Hospital for exhaustion." Luthor looks up from his paper. "Quite the distinguished service record."

"Thank you," Jonathan responds.

They sit in a small, windowless room in the air base north of Smallville. Jonathan is sipping a coffee as Luthor reads notes on a clipboard. The only sound is the hum of the electric light above.  
"If I may be so bold, Mr. Kent, I am curious about your brief stint in the psychiatric ward," Luthor says. "If it is not too much to ask, might you clarify the nature of your stay there?"

"Certainly," Jonathan replies, forcing himself to smile. "They said it was shell-shock. All I know is I started to get real riled up, tense and nervous, towards the end of the war. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, you know. It was like a heavy weight was weighin' down my soul. Then one day, I just blacked out. I don't remember it, but they tell me I started acting crazy. Cryin', shoutin', and generally acting all hysterical-like. They told me it was shell-shock. But because of my medal, they treated me good. Took me to Metropolis for the finest treatment a man can have. And I'm feelin' fine now."

"But you had not seen front-line action for many months prior to that." Luthor draws a set of thick-rimmed glasses from his pocket and puts them on, squinting at his notes.

"No, sir. But I'd just been hearing about so many horrible things, and I think it just put me over the edge."

"Given the timing of your breakdown, I assume you are referring to the use of the atom bomb." Luthor scowls.

Jonathan looks down. "Yeah, that was a part of it, for sure. But there was the business with the death camps in Europe, and I lost so many of my buddies on the front lines, and I'd just seen so much death an' dyin'…"

"You, of course, realize that if the President hadn't authorized the use of the atom bomb, we might have lost millions invading Japan. You must know better than anyone that the Japs were ready to fight to the death."

"Look," Jonathan says, "unless this has something to do with the crash…"

"It does not," Luthor interrupts. "I apologise if this is a difficult topic for you, Mr. Kent. I'm simply trying to get some insight into your personality, and from what I can tell, you are a reasonable man and a patriot. Am I correct in this assessment?"

"I like to think so," Jonathan answers. "I love my country."

"Very good." He looks at his clipboard. "Your wife is a Negro."

Jonathan narrows his eyes. "Yeah she is. Ain't no law against that in Kansas."

"Indeed. Still, I imagine this must have been difficult for you in a town such as Smallville."

_Is__ he__ baiting__ me?_ Jonathan wonders. "Look. We've had some trouble in the past. But the people of Smallville might surprise you. They're good folks. And frankly, Mr. Luthor, I don't see what this has to do with why I'm here. I love my wife."

Luthor continues to stare at his clipboard. "I am simply trying to get a sense of your personality, Mr. Kent. And I will inform you that we are preparing to announce that the object which crashed on your property was a weather balloon."

Jonathan peers at the craggy face. "With respect, Mr. Luthor, what I saw wasn't no weather balloon."

Luthor breathes deeply. "Quite right, Mr. Kent. It was indeed something far more complex than that, and we are still trying to determine exactly what it is. What we do know is that the object, if it fell into the wrong hands, could pose a very serious threat to our national security. Therefore, in the interest of the safety of the American public, we plan to keep details of the crash classified. As a patriot and former serviceman, I am sure you can see the reasons behind our decision."

"So you want me to lie about it?"

"Not exactly. Publicly, perhaps, but in service of the greater good. But privately – with your wife, for instance, who has seen the object firsthand – we would ask that you explain the necessity of keeping this information from becoming public."

Jonathan's palms are sweating slightly, and his thoughts return to little Clark. Slowly, he nods. "Yeah. Okay. It was a weather balloon."

Luthor grins for the first time. "I realize, Mr. Kent, that you are an honest man, and that this may weigh heavily upon your conscience. We certainly do not wish to be any trouble for you, and are willing to compensate you for inconveniencing of you and your family, to the tune of three thousand dollars."

"Ah, no, you don't have to," Jonathan protests.

"We insist. You are doing a great service to your country, Mr. Kent."

"Aw, shucks," Jonathan smiles. "Well, I'm just glad to have the chance to help out one more time. Now, if y'all don't mind taking me back to the farmhouse, the missus will be waiting."

"We will be happy to," Luthor smiles, "very shortly. There is only one more matter to discuss."

Jonathan's heart sinks. "What's that?"

Still smiling, Luthor says, "We believe that something was taken from the crash site."

Trying to look concerned, Jonathan replies, "I don't know nothin' about that, mister Luthor. You think somebody might have had at it before you got there?"

"Well, Mr. Kent, this is what perplexes us. You see, there were only two sets of footprints near the crash when we got there. Yours and your wife's, I presume."

"That's right. But we didn't take nothing. I was worried about radiation, you know. That stuff can give you cancer!"

"Absolutely," Luthor says. "Which would be of particular concern for your young son, I expect."

"Yep. We were really worried about that, the wife and I. You don't think we might be radioactive just from being near it, do ya?"

"I wouldn't expect so, but I can ask the base's medical personnel to give you a checkup if you like." Luthor glances at his clipboard. "When you looked at the crash, did you notice a blue-grey, oval-shaped object, perhaps two feet long?"

Jonathan pauses for a moment, as if thinking back to the crash. "Yeah, I think so, now that you mention it. What about it?"

"We think it was a container of some kind. It seems to open and close easily, and it was empty and open when we found it."

"So you think there was something inside?"

"That is what we're trying to figure out. But you are certain that neither you nor your wife took anything from the crash?"

"Totally sure."

Luthor puts his clipboard down. "Then you will not mind if we take a very brief look inside your house, just to verify? Just a routine check; nothing too invasive."

"What, you don't believe me?" Jonathan asks.

"I certainly believe you, Mr. Kent, and I don't want to invade your privacy in any way. However, I have been directly ordered to search your premises. It is my hope that, with your co-operation, it can be done as quickly as possible with minimal hassle to you and your family. And since we both know that you haven't taken anything, you have absolutely nothing to worry about."

Luthor's gaze is cold, reminding Jonathan of some bird of prey sizing up its victim. _Damn,_ he thinks. _Does__ he__ know?__ I__ have__ to __warn__ Martha._

"Well," he says, "I don't see that bein' a problem, but I gotta ask the missus. So I'm just gonna give her a call, and then you can do your search."

"I am afraid that will not be possible," Luthor tells him. "Our orders state that no unauthorized personnel are to break the communications blackout."

"Well, can't you authorize me then?" Jonathan's palms begin to sweat.

"Not for mere formalities, I am afraid."

Jonathan scowls. "Formalities?"

"We do have a warrant, Mr. Kent. You must realize that I am not required by law to ask your permission to do this, yet I am asking you out of courtesy."

Shaking, Jonathan asks, "Well, can't you extend the same courtesy to my wife?"

Luthor is silent. _I__'__ve__ given__ away__ too__ much,_ Jonathan thinks. _Now __he__ knows__ I__'__m__ hiding __something._

"It is a routine check, Mr. Kent. You will be informed when we are finished, and you will be free to return to your family."

"Thanks," he says dryly.

Luthor rises to his feet. "That will be all, Mr. Kent. We ask that you remain on the premises while we conduct our search. If you require anything, please let one of the staff know."

"Sure thing," Jonathan says sarcastically. "But let me tell you, my wife ain't gonna be too happy about this. And trust me, she is one lady you don't wanna cross."

"Duly noted, Mr. Kent. Thank you for your time."

* * *

"Who the hell'd you say you are?"

Martha holds Clark tightly in her arms, glaring at the five men who have entered her home.

"Dr. Matthew Caspian, ma'am. I'm from the Faculty of Astronomy at Princeton. These are my colleagues, Dr. Bartholomew Lucas and Dr. Mel Schroeder. We've been brought here by… er… these gentlemen," the scientist says, gesturing at the two agents, who stare balefully from the doorway.

"Astronomers? Are you serious?"

"We have a warrant to search these premises, Mrs. Kent," one of the agents says, smirking. "Please let the specialists do their job."

Dr. Caspian smiles awkwardly. "Specialists. Such as it is. I'm sorry about this, Mrs. Kent; we shouldn't be long."

"Does my husband know about this? Let me talk to him," she growls. "Hell, I want to talk to a lawyer!"

"Please let the specialists do their job," the other agent repeats. "And mind your tone - we are federal agents."

"Oh yeah? Does that mean you can just walk into a woman's house and start snooping around? I got rights!"

"Actually, I think it does mean exactly that," one of the agents says to the other, chuckling.

"Negroes got rights now?" the other one jokes.

Martha seethes with anger. "Now, that's just…"

"Mrs. Kent!" interrupts Dr. Caspian. She turns, glaring.

"Ah, can you come with us, please?" the scientist says nervously. "We might need your help."

Shooting one last murderous look at the two agents, she turns on her heel to face the scientists. "Take your goddamn shoes off in my house!"

"Yes, ma'am," the scientists murmur, crouching to untie their shoes.

Clark squirms in her arms, his little hand coming to rest on her shoulder. A feeling of warmth washes through her, calming her, and she breathes deeply. "Don't worry, little man," she whispers. "This will all be over soon."

"Uh, so maybe we will start with the kitchen, if that's alright, Mrs. Kent?" Dr. Caspian asks.

"Be my guest," Martha replies, scowling.

She follows the scientists into the kitchen, ignoring the agents snickering at the doorway.

When the feds are out of earshot, Dr. Caspian turns to her. "Look, Mrs. Kent. We all got called up in the middle of the night and flown out here. We don't want to be here anymore than you want us here, but they think you took some kind of weapon from that wreckage. The sooner we can do this, the sooner we'll be out of your hair."

"Look at me," she says. "Do I look like I have any use for some space weapon?"

"Not at all. To be totally honest, I don't even have a clue what I'm supposed to be looking for. But no, I don't think you took anything. I just want to get this over with. And… and I'm sorry about those assholes."

"I'm pleased to say there are no space weapons in the fridge!" Dr. Schroeder announces.

Martha smiles in spite of herself. "Well, it ain't your fault that they're assholes."

Dr. Lucas chimes in, "I think we can count the fact that those feds aren't vaporized yet as evidence against the presence of space weapons here."

"That's probably true!" Dr. Caspian chuckles. Then he looks at Clark, and Martha clutches him tight. "How old?"

"What?"

He smiles. "My little girl is seven months. Such a sweet age."

"Oh. Yes. Clark is five months."

"Does he keep you up at night?" Dr. Caspian regards the baby warmly.

"Not hardly at all," she whispers. "He's a good baby. A very good baby." _Will__ he __figure __it __out?_she wonders.

"I am pleased to declare this kitchen devoid of extraterrestrial weaponry!" announces Dr. Lucas, shutting the cupboards.

The telephone rings. _They __reconnected __it,_she realizes. _That __means __they__'__re__ listening._

"Excuse me," she says to the scientists. "That may be my husband."

She picks up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Martha?" comes a female voice. "It's Laura! How do you do?"

"Who is that?" one of the feds barks from the door.

Martha glares at him. "Laura Lang. A friend. Now, if you don't mind?"

The fed frowns.

"Martha!" Laura continues. "Lewis and I have been _so_ worried! My stars, worried _sick_ about you and Jonathan. Yes sir, and the little one, too! Little Clark! Was he frightened by the meteors?"

_Doug__ told__ Laura__ and__ Lewis,_ she realizes. "Oh, thank you, Laura, we're fine, we're fine. Little Clark had a fit! He was some frightened. But who can blame him? I was mighty frightened, myself. And Jonathan, he thought it was the Russians!"

"Mercy!" Laura exclaims. "Well, I never. To think something like that would happen here, in little old Smallville! Me and Lewis, we'd have come down to see y'all, but this little baby of mine's gonna come out any minute. Tell little Clark his playmate will be here soon!"

Conscious of the looming feds, Martha coos to Clark, "Did you hear that? You're going to have a little friend soon!"

"So, how _are_ you holding up, Martha? Rumour has it the Kent farm is quite the hotbed of activity!"

"Yes," Martha replies, "some nice feds have dropped by to pay their respects. Pleasant folk."

"I'm sure." Laura pauses. "Martha… we're all dying to know here. What _was_ it that landed on your ranch?"

She glances at the agents once again. "I don't rightly know. Something… something not of this world."

The feds start moving towards her. Hastily, she says, "Thanks so much for calling, Laura! I will talk to you soon!"

"Gracious! Take care of yourself!"

Martha hangs up the phone.

"It was a weather balloon, if you must know," one of the agents says.

"Right." She narrows her eyes. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to the scientists."

The agents nod, and she turns and walks briskly up the stairs to the bedroom. _Laura__ knows __they__ want __the__ baby,_ she thinks. _She__'__s__ covering__ for__ me!_ To Clark, she whispers, "You see? We ain't all bad."

She reaches the top of the stairs. The bedroom door is mostly shut, and she hears the scientists talking excitedly.

"It's preposterous!" comes a voice. Dr. Lucas, she thinks.

"All I'm saying," says another voice, whose slight accent identifies its owner as Dr. Steinberg, "is that this is not the home of a family with a small child."

Her heart skips a beat.

"Do you think it's possible?" Lucas asks. "I mean, we are talking about an extraterrestrial being."

"It is an extraterrestrial craft," Schroeder replies. "Matthew? What do you think?"

There is a pause. "Mel's right, Bart. That baby is from another world. I know he is."

Martha is paralyzed, every instinct in her body telling her to make a run for it. But Clark's warm body soothes her, and she stays, listening.

"How do you know?"

"I just know. I can tell. There's something about him."

Wryly, Lucas says, "That's some kind of empirical evidence, there, Matt. You should publish that."

"Take a look at the kid. Look in his eyes. Then tell me."

Another awkward silence. Then, Lucas again: "Alright. Let's say you both are right, and this family stole this alien baby from the crash. What do we do? Do we tell the feds? And what if we're wrong?"

"We can't tell the feds," Caspian says. "We have to tell them we didn't find anything."

"You realize that that is treason," Schroeder tells him.

"I know. I know it would be treason. But look - nobody even knows what they're looking for. If we tell the feds we didn't find anything, how are they going to know the difference? And even if they do find out, that baby looks just like a human baby. No one can fault us for not knowing the difference. But we can't tell them. You both know exactly what is going to happen to that baby if Hoover gets his hands on him. He'll go straight to the Pentagon. That's no way for a kid to live."

"Yeah," Lucas sighs. "I have a kid too. I see what you are saying. But I've gotta point out, this is potentially the biggest scientific discovery in human history. We are scientists. Isn't this bigger than us?"

There is silence for a moment. Then, Schroeder's voice. "Science." He pauses again, for a long moment. "Science. You know, I used to think science was bigger than any of us. Electricity. Medicine. Telephones. I used to think it was just success after success, the march of human progress, none too soon, out of the darkness of ignorance and barbarism and disease into the filament-lit future of human flourishing. Free at last from the bonds of superstition.

"But now look. My people, the German people, had some of the most brilliant scientific minds in history. Did it make us any more civilized? Or did science allow us to unleash the most unspeakable acts of barbarism the world has ever seen? We had a whole branch of science to justify what we did, you know. The science of human races. With science telling us we are right, who can say we are wrong?

"I met Robert Oppenheimer once, you know. Last year, at Princeton. He told me it was only a matter of time before the Russians had the atomic bomb. And it wouldn't stop there, he told me. More and more bombs would be made, until the stakes of war became life itself. I've heard people say that only a madman would unleash an atomic hell of that scale. But the ever-unfolding pageant of horrific lunacy that is human history doesn't give one much hope.

"But this child. Think about the technology that brought him here - it's beyond anything man has ever dreamed. And yet, they created it, these supermen. They have technology far beyond the atomic bomb, but yet their civilization lived to bring this child here. The Pentagon will study his body and his DNA, but that's not what will be the key to our survival. It's what's in his mind, in his heart. He is the child of a wiser race, a truly civilized race. He is living proof that it is possible for us to join together, overcome our differences, and reach for the stars. He is the American dream, the human dream. He is the redemption of mankind, delivering us from atomic annihilation."

The scientists are silent. A tear runs down Martha's cheek, and she holds Clark close.

* * *

"With me, please, Mr. Kent."

Jonathan blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His mouth is dry and his back is stiff from sleeping upright in his chair in the sterile waiting room. _How__ long __have__ I__ been__ here?_ he wonders.

"What's going on?"

Luthor says, "I am taking you back to your ranch."

"Great! Any news from there?"

Luthor says nothing. He leaves the room, and Jonathan follows him through the hallways of the airbase to a military-issue Jeep. He climbs into the passenger's seat, and Luthor starts the vehicle.

They pull away from the airbase in the morning haze. For what seems like the better part of an hour, they do not speak. Finally, Luthor says to Jonathan, "Mr. Kent, I would like to have an honest conversation with you, strictly off the record."

"Sure. Shoot."

"It strikes me as odd that I have not been able to find any records of the birth of your son."

_Here __it__ is,_ Jonathan thinks. "Right. Actually, we haven't quite gotten around to getting him properly registered. Been busy, you know. We'll do that right away."

"Kent," Luthor growls, looking him in the eye. "I know you took that baby from the crash."

"What?" Jonathan tries to remain calm. "That's ridiculous. He's our baby."

"Do not lie to me, Kent. That organism is the legal property of the government of the United States of America."

"He ain't property! He's my son!"

"He is not your son!" barks Luthor. It is the first time Jonathan has heard him raise his voice.

Lowering his voice again, Luthor says, "I am a father, Mr. Kent. I have a young son, ten years old. He is a brilliant boy, and I'm certain he's destined for great things. But this is a dangerous world. You know this, Mr. Kent. We stand against the forces of barbarism, of murderous fascism, of godless communism. We alone carry the torch of freedom against the darkness. This is America's time, Mr. Kent. My son embodies the brilliance of America - the brilliance that allowed us to split the atom, to hold the power of God himself against the enemies of freedom. But our enemies will soon hold this power themselves. We need constant innovation to defend ourselves. We need this alien!"

"Are you trying to tell me you want to take my son in the name of freedom?" Jonathan asks, incredulous. "So the Pentagon can dissect him? This is a living person we're talking about! What about my freedom? What about my son's freedom?"

"We're talking about America's future!" Luthor is shouting again. "The future of democracy! Of civilization! We must stand united, and we must all make the sacrifices necessary to preserve our way of life! It will give me no joy, Mr. Kent, but mark my words, I will take this creature from you by force. It is my duty. It is for my son, and all the sons of America."

Jonathan stares at him, his heart pounding. "You will never take Clark from me. You'll have to kill me first."

"Mr. Kent, I will ask you one last time to be reasonable and comply with the law. If our scientists determine that the baby is human, he will be returned to you."

"No. You can't do this."

"I will kill you, Mr. Kent. Don't believe that I won't."

"I am a decorated veteran. People in my community know me. They will know what happened. You'll be ruined."

"I am prepared to make any sacrifice for our future."

"Well, what kind of future is it when the government can take people's kids away from them with no justification?"

They are approaching the ranch now. _I__ have __to__ warn__ Martha,_ Jonathan thinks, and leaps from the Jeep, hitting the snow-covered ground hard. He climbs to his feet and runs for the house.

"Stop!" Luthor bellows, driving the Jeep on the lawn towards the house, then climbing out and running after him.

Jonathan reaches the door first and opens it. "Martha! They want to take Clark! You have to get out of here!"

There are two agents in the house. "Stop her!" Luthor shouts, running towards the house. Jonathan turns to face him, standing between him and the door.

Luthor raises his fist and strikes Jonathan hard in the face. Stars explode across his vision, and he falls to the ground, spitting blood.

"No," he sputters, climbing to his feet. "I won't let you do this."

Luthor seizes him by the collar and punches him again. Jonathan falls to the ground again. He sees the two agents in the house, holding Martha, who is screaming his name. The baby is also screaming. Luthor is drawing his gun. Holding it by its barrel, he strikes Jonathan hard in the face, knocking several teeth out.

Jonathan looks into Luthor's eyes once more. The agent looks away, then strikes him again with his pistol. And again.

"Stop! What are you doing?"

Looking up through a haze of pain, Jonathan sees Doug Parker, his gun drawn and pointed at Luthor. Behind him are Lewis Lane and his pregnant wife, and perhaps twenty other community members.

"That man is a hero!" Doug shouts. "He's a veteran, a Medal of Honor recipient! What in God's name do you think you are doing?"

Luthor points his blood-stained gun at the crowd. "He is in possession of government property. An alien life-form."

"They want to take our baby!" Martha shrieks from the doorway.

"You think little Clark is an alien?" Laura Lang asks incredulously. "You're crazy!"

The crowd begins to jeer Luthor. Jonathan, dazed, climbs once again to his feet. Luthor fires his gun in the air. "On the authority of the Federal Bureau of Investigation…"

"Excuse me!" comes a voice from behind Jonathan. Three men push their way past the feds holding Martha. "Excuse me! As part of the scientific investigation team sent here on personal orders of President Truman himself, I can verify that no alien technology nor life-forms are being held here. That baby is a human baby, a child of Earth. If you attempt to take the child, I will tell the President and the press that an innocent infant was taken on the basis of wild speculation. And I certainly will not corroborate your absurd 'weather balloon' story."

Luthor looks at the crowd, and at the scientists, then at Jonathan, Martha, and the baby.

To his agents, he says, "Let them go."

They release Martha, and she runs to Jonathan and embraces him. Clark stops crying, and touches Jonathan's bloodied face gingerly. The pain subsides a little.

To his agents, Luthor says, "We will await further orders in this matter."

He does not turn to face the crowd or Jonathan as he climbs into his Jeep. One of the agents points to the crowd and shouts, "It was a weather balloon!" A chorus of jeers erupts once more.

The feds pull away.

The scientists take Jonathan and help him hobble into the house. Martha says to them, "Thank you." Then, to Doug and the crowd, "And thank you. Thank you so much."

"Smallville protects its own," Doug says. "Let's call a doctor."

The scientists lay Jonathan on the couch, and Martha sits next to him, holding the baby.

"It's good to see my family again," Jonathan whispers.

Martha smiles, stroking his head. Clark also smiles. Soon, he is asleep in Martha's arms.


End file.
